Sand Trap

by L. M. Somerton

  Crow resumed his seat by the window with Rogue beside him.

  Hatchet pulled up a chair. “So, who do I get to kill?”

  Adrian rolled his eyes. “I’m not hearing any of this.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Teddy leered. “When this is over and we have our Shelton back, I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

  “Such a charmer.” Adrian scowled, but there was a light flush on his cheeks.

  Crow appreciated that Teddy had said when, not if. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, Sheriff, but why are you here?” Crow asked.

  “He rode your bike down here,” Rogue answered. “And before you say anything, it was Adrian or Orlando.”

  Crow shuddered at the thought of Orlando in charge of his baby. “Thank God for small mercies.”

  “Then he’ll take the truck and put a bomb under the Border Patrol while we do our thing.”

  “I have a few connections,” Adrian said.

  “I think we’ll need all the help we can get.” Crow scrubbed a hand through his hair, which was coming loose from its braid. “Thank you, Adrian. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” Adrian leaned against Teddy. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  “How the hell are we going to find him, Rogue?” Crow fought back despair. “I didn’t see a face, plates on the Jeep, nothing. Fuck, I’m useless.”

  Rogue grinned and Crow wondered what the hell had him so cheerful.

  “Sometimes working for the world’s biggest bastard has its uses,” Rogue said. “For once in his miserable life, Horatio Trap has done us a favor. No doubt the payback will be long and painful, but Shelton’s worth it. Don’t ask me how he knows, but Trap has given me the location of the group that has Shelton.”

  “How the hell can he possibly know?” Crow kept his voice low with an effort. “It’s only been a few hours.”

  “We’re not the only group working for him, Crow. He’s had tags on these fuckers for months. They’re not cartel, they’re people traffickers. Slavers for all intents and purposes—led by a low-life who calls himself The Snake. He controls the border when it comes to the slave trade and his death toll is significant. The bodies you saw are probably men who got too difficult or couldn’t be sold. You and Shelton were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “No shit.” Crow cursed under his breath. “I should have known better than to take Shelton so close to the border.”

  “Trap’s web has many strands. He wants to use this situation to his advantage. This Snake guy is wanted by every law enforcement acronym you can think of.”

  “If it gets Shelton back,” Crow said, “I couldn’t give a shit what he wants us to do. Slaver scum have no rights.”

  “Something we all agree with.” Rogue gestured at the waitress. “More coffee. Then we plan.”

  Chapter Four

  In the time Shelton had been a part of The Wyverns he’d managed to avoid too many hairy, life-threatening situations. He left the dangerous, messy work to the others and did his best to keep their asses out of the fire whenever he could. This time he’d landed on sizzling hot coals and it was all his own stupid fault. He’d analyzed every step from the moment he’d left Crow at the campsite to the point he’d gotten up close and personal with the barrel of a gun. A Colt M16A2 assault rifle to be precise. Shelton had been around enough armaments to recognize the model that might end his short but entertaining life. He knew exactly where he’d gone wrong. Moving more than twenty yards away from Crow—that had been his one, potentially fatal mistake.

  “Fuck. It took us so long to get together and I manage to screw it up on our first date.” Shelton punched the thin, dirty mattress he was lying on.

  His accommodations were basic to say the least. Concrete floor, breeze-block walls and a small, barred window through which he could see a brick wall and a litter-strewn alley. A trickle of slimy water ran along the dip in its center and it stank of raw sewage. Not exactly five-star scenery. The single door was metal, with a narrow slot at ground level and a viewing panel higher up. Shelton had already tested the door—it was shut tight. There was no handle on his side. Apart from his narrow cot, the room contained a galvanized bucket and a chipped jug of warm water. There were a couple of rusting metal rings fixed to the wall, but no power outlets or switches. It was hot, dark and boredom gnawed at Shelton’s psyche like a rat chewing through garbage. He’d checked every nook and cranny but there was nothing available from which to manufacture a MacGyver moment.

  Shelton had on dirt-stained jeans and a ratty T-shirt that his captors had donated, apparently taking offense at his shirtless state. They’d taken his boots, he assumed to stop him making a run for it, though as he had no idea where in the fuck he was, that seemed excessive. His feet were cut and bruised from the trip between the Jeep and his prison, a journey he’d made blindfolded. They’d tied a filthy cloth over his eyes once they’d crossed the border into Mexico. Shelton begrudged every cent of the taxes that went toward funding the border guards’ unobservant, blissfully ignorant asses. The press of a blade to his spine had insured his silence but he’d tried to fix an expression of abject terror on his face. He thought it might at the very least have aroused suspicion. No such luck. He could have had twenty kilos of cocaine stuffed down his pants and they’d have been none the wiser.

  With his sight gone, he’d attempted to keep track of the twists and turns on the journey but in the end, all his concentration had been on not throwing up. He’d never been that great a backseat passenger.

  He spoke good Spanish—not something he’d let on about—and had listened as the men in the Jeep had discussed the bad luck that had caused the storm to uncover the bodies they’d recently hidden. They were afraid of someone called Culebra—Snake—and what he was going to do to them because of their incompetence. Shelton was a handy consolation gift. His ransom would more than make up for the inconvenience of a few exposed corpses, or so they hoped. One had recounted a story of Snake cutting off someone’s ear, on another occasion he’d detached a few fingers. He didn’t sound like anyone Shelton wanted to meet. Ever.

  Shelton couldn’t help but wonder who the poor unfortunates in the grave were. He guessed they were either illegal migrants or slave labor. Either way, that made his captors the scum of the earth and a total waste of oxygen. He rolled off the cot then limped across to the door. Pressing his ear to the metal, he strained to hear what was going on in the next room. He caught the faint sound of music but no conversation and gave the door a disgusted smack. His stomach growled, reminding him how long it had been since he’d eaten. That filled his head with thoughts of Crow and the meal he’d been preparing. Tears welled and he couldn’t stop them rolling down his face. He wanted Crow’s arms around him, keeping him safe. He resolved that if he ever got home, he’d never leave The Wyverns’ headquarters again. Their dusty piece of desert was nirvana compared to his current situation.

  “Pull yourself together, Shel. What would Crow do, or Orlando? The brat is always getting into awkward situations.” He wiped his nose on a corner of the T-shirt then dried his eyes with the back of his hand. “Think. You have a brain. Fucking use it.”

  Before he got the chance, the door banged open and the beam of a powerful flashlight split the darkness. Shelton scuttled away to the farthest corner of the room but watched with horrified fascination as a huge frame filled the doorway.

  “Why the fuck is my property not secured?” For such a big man, his voice was surprisingly quiet and to Shelton, that made him more menacing. Apparently he had the same effect on his men, two of whom edged into the room.

  “Sorry, Snake.”

  Shelton swallowed his fear. This was Snake. The man who inspired such fear in his own gang. He wore leather pants and a stained wife beater. A poorly executed tattoo of a black snake encircled one arm.

  “You fuckers already screwed up good. If you want to keep breathing, chain him up.”

 
“Sí, jefe.” One of them had a length of chain in his hands. A ring of heavy iron swung from the end.

  “Hold him.”

  Shelton’s upper arms were grasped tightly and he had to hold back a shout as thick fingers dug into his biceps. The metal ring split into two hinged halves that were pressed together around his neck and locked with a padlock. The other end of the chain was fixed to one of the rings bolted to the wall. The iron collar was heavy and tight against his skin and the chain allowed him to take just a few steps away from the wall.

  One man gave the chain an experimental tug. “It will hold fine, jefe.” He and his sidekick departed, leaving Shelton alone with their boss, who was in possession of the flashlight.

  “What do you want from me?” Shelton controlled the fear in his voice, but only just.

  “What do you think?” The Snake’s English was heavily accented. He shone the light directly into Shelton’s eyes.

  “I have no idea. I’m not worth anything to anyone.”

  “I hope you’re lying, because you’re only worth keeping alive for as long as you have potential value. Your family will buy you back, I think.”

  Shelton laughed. “You should have kidnapped someone with parents that give a damn. They hate the sight of me.”

  “Then you had better pray they have a change of heart. You’d be surprised how motivating we can be and when your pictures appear on national media, I doubt your family will want to be perceived as abandoning you.”

  The door slammed shut and Shelton was left in the darkness. He sat down against the wall, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was a faint sliver of light around the doorframe but that was all. With nothing to do except sit, he began to feel the ache of his battered body. He wasn’t badly hurt, just bruised from the journey and some less than gentle handling. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to distract himself by mentally reciting song lyrics and poetry. Not that he knew much of the latter. He didn’t dare think of Crow. Even the idea that he might never see him again was too painful to deal with and he was having enough trouble staying calm as it was.

  Time passed with glacial slowness and eventually Shelton gave up trying to stay awake. His chain was just long enough for him to lie down on the cot providing he didn’t attempt to roll over. Despite the oppressive heat, pain and fear, exhaustion won the battle with his consciousness and he slipped into a deep sleep.

  When he awoke, it took a few moments to remember where he was and to realize that his kidnapping wasn’t just a nightmare, it was horrifyingly real. The dim light coming through the small window told him it was dawn or later. He was stiff and aching. His neck had been rubbed raw by the collar and his bladder was protesting. He forced himself to use the bucket, then walked back and forth the few paces his chain allowed to try to loosen his stiff limbs. He froze as the bolts on the door grated. It swung open, sending a shaft of brighter light into the room. Dust motes floated in the hazy illumination—a moment of ethereal beauty at odds with Shelton’s terrifying reality. He backed up until he was pressed against the wall, but there was nowhere to hide. There was just one man this time, carrying a small duffle bag. He wore dark glasses that were too big for his face, and chewed on a toothpick, occasionally revealing blackened teeth.

  “Time for a few shots for the family album. Strip.” The man spoke English as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Fuck off,” Shelton muttered.

  “Either do it yourself or I’ll do it for you. Your choice.”

  If it weren’t for the chain, Shelton might have taken his chances. He hesitated and that was enough for the man to pull a wicked knife from his back pocket.

  “I can carve you up before the photo shoot if that’s the way you want it?” He hacked up a gob of brown phlegm then spit it and the toothpick out onto the floor.

  Shelton guessed that was the signal he meant business. He wondered if he could grab the little shard of wood then drive it into something soft and fleshy. Maybe an eyeball. Or another kind of ball. That would work.

  Imagining violence was all well and good, but Shelton was in no position to follow through. If Orlando had been with him, things would have been different, but he wasn’t. Shelton was alone and survival was his prime objective. He fumbled with his T-shirt but realized he couldn’t take it off with the chain in the way. He froze as his new acquaintance approached, sneer firmly fixed on his lips. He used his knife to slit Shelton’s top from collar to hem then again down each sleeve so that it fell away in pieces. Before his pants could get the same treatment, Shelton dropped them then kicked them away. He stood there, trying not to tremble, flushed with the humiliation of stripping in front of his implacable tormentor.

  “On your knees.”

  Shelton did as he was told and tried to stay calm. “What’s your name?” he asked, attempting a connection.

  “Cuchillo.” He pulled handcuffs from his bag then used them to restrain Shelton’s arms behind his back.

  Shelton decided that his life expectancy would be greatly enhanced if he didn’t piss off a man nicknamed ‘Knife’. Conversation was not on the agenda because a gag came next, tied tightly enough to cut into the sides of Shelton’s mouth. He slowed his breathing. He refused to cry.

  Cuchillo took pictures of him from every possible angle. The flash blinded Shelton repeatedly until spots floated in front of his eyes. Cuchillo placed the camera back in his duffle and bent forward to remove the gag, giving Shelton a whiff of acrid breath.

  “How many fucking pictures do you need?” he spat, his patience wearing thin enough to make him brave. Surely one was enough to effectively demonstrate both his degradation and captivity.

  “Maybe I want some for my personal collection.”

  Cuchillo unlocked the handcuffs and Shelton whimpered as his circulation returned with sparks of pain. It was a huge relief when Cuchillo left him alone again. He dragged on his pants, angry at the humiliation he’d been forced to endure. He hadn’t been asked to give details of how to contact his family, or anyone else who might be prepared to pay his ransom. He wondered who would open their email to find pictures of him, naked and broken.

  Within the hour he was given food, water and a clean bucket. Shelton rejected the idea they might drug him and ate every scrap of the bread and pungent cheese. It was pointless starving himself and if they wanted to do him serious harm they could, outnumbered and helpless as he was. His job was to stay alive. For Crow.

  * * * *

  Crossing the border was much easier than Crow had expected it to be. Apparently, there wasn’t much concern about who was heading south, or what they were carrying. The Wyverns weren’t packing heat, that was a step too far, but Crow had several knives strapped around his person and he’d lay money that the others had similar concealed weapons. They weren’t given more than a cursory glance. Clearly Horatio Trap’s sphere of influence, his reach, stretched a long way. Crow compartmentalized that thought for later consideration. For now, he couldn’t care less where help came from providing it got them south of the border and Shelton back in his arms where he belonged.

  It was approaching dawn when Rogue pulled in at a rundown roadhouse and the rest of them followed. The place seemed to be closed but he kicked down his stand and dismounted. Crow stayed on his bike, not appreciating the delay.

  “What’s going on, Rogue? We need to keep moving.”

  Next to him Hatchet swung a leg over his saddle. He stretched, his joints audibly popping.

  “Fuck, I’m getting too old for this shit.” He walked across to Crow. “Keep it together, man, we have a gift from Trap to collect.”

  Crow sucked in a deep breath then let it hiss from between his teeth. He gave Hatchet a curt nod before resting his bike on its stand. Teddy, waiting next to him, just shrugged. Rogue hammered on the door of the bar, which swung open immediately. To Crow’s amazement, The Wyvern’s intermediary with Horatio Trap, Mr. Smith, appeared in the doorway. Rogue followed him inside and emerged again a few
minutes later with an armful of guns. Crow preferred his knives but didn’t turn down the Colt Automatic he was offered. Smith, dressed in pressed chinos and a button-down shirt, couldn’t have looked more out of place if he’d tried. Being surrounded by leather-clad bikers on a deserted highway in Mexico didn’t seem to faze him in the least. Hatchet, however, was not happy.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Hatchet loomed over Smith, who gazed up at him, unperturbed.

  Crow chuckled. Hatchet was twice Smith’s size. They had to be the most mismatched pairing ever but Hatch had always held a candle for the mysterious, elusive Mr. Smith.

  “Delivery boy,” Smith said. “Sometimes you can’t trust that a job will get done unless you do it yourself, and it was rather short notice. What Mr. Trap wants, he gets, and tonight that is apparently providing you reprobates with enough armaments to take out a small country, along with the location of your missing gang member.”

  “He called us reprobates,” Teddy complained.

  Rogue shrugged. “You only know what that means because Adrian explained it to you, and your sheriff calls us much worse. We appreciate the personal service, Smith. How are you getting out of here?”

  “I’m not. I’m coming with you.”

  “The fuck you are,” Hatchet growled.

  “You’d rather I stayed here and took my chances? I don’t have any transport…it’s already departed.” Smith batted his eyelashes.

  “Your choice, Hatch.” Rogue mounted his bike. “I couldn’t give a shit if we leave him here. The man’s a pain in my ass.”

  “Triple fuck.” Hatch kicked at the dirt. “If you come with us, you do what I say, when I say it. Understand?”

  “I don’t think I know you well enough to make that kind of promise just yet.” Smith smirked.

  “Can you two stop with the fucking foreplay and mount up?” Crow snapped, impatience getting the better of him.